before--
I know if she was wantin' much she'd call to me some more.
An' purty soon she comes agin an' says: "Willie! Willee-e-ee!"
But my hearin's jus' as hard as w'at it useter be.
If a feller has good judgment, an' uses it that way,
He can almos' allers manage to git consid'ble play.

But jus' w'ile I am playin', an' prob'ly I am "it,"
They's somethin' diff'rent happens, an' I have to up, an' git,
Fer my pa comes to the doorway, an' he interrup's our glee;
He jus' says, "William Henry!" but that's enough fer me.
You'd be surprised to notice how quickly I can hear
W'en my pa says, "William Henry!" but never "Willie, dear!"
Fer though my hearin's middlin' bad to hear the voice of ma,
It's apt to show improvement w'en the callin' comes from pa.

The Service Flag

Dear little flag in the window there,
Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,
Child of Old Glory, born with a star--
Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

Blue is your star in its field of white,
Dipped in the red that was born of fight;
Born of the blood that our forebears shed
To raise your mother, The Flag, o'er-head.

And now you've come, in this frenzied day,
To speak from a window--to speak and say:
"I am the voice of a soldier son,
Gone, to be gone till the victory's won.

"I am the flag of The Service, sir:
The flag of his mother--I speak for her
Who stands by my window and waits and fears,
But hides from the others her unwept tears.

"I am the flag of the wives who wait
For the safe return of a martial mate--
A mate gone forth where the war god thrives,
To save from sacrifice other men's wives.

"I am the flag of the sweethearts true;
The often unthought of--the sisters, too.
I am the flag of a mother's son,
Who won't come home till the victory's won!"

Dear little flag in the window there,
Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer,
Child of Old Glory, born with a star--
Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!

_William Herschell._

Flying Jim's Last Leap

(_The hero of this tale had once been a famous trapeze performer._)

Cheeriest room, that morn, the kitchen. Helped by Bridget's willing hands,
Bustled Hannah, deftly mixing pies, for ready waiting pans.
Little Flossie flitted round them, and her curling, floating hair
Glinted gold-like, gleamed and glistened, in the sparkling sunlit air;
Slouched a figure o'er the lawn; a man so wretched and forlore,
Tattered, grim, so like a beggar, ne'er had trod that path before.